how the mighty fall in love
by TheFigureInTheCorner
Summary: "'I'm terrified, Nathaniel.' You swallow a lump you hadn't realized was in your throat as he whispers this, voice cracking nearly every other syllable." One-shot, set in kind of an apocalypse AU in which Castiel and Nathaniel don't have time to get to hate each other.


You meet him in the crawl space between two collapsed buildings.

A horde had been sweeping through the city and apparently you'd both had the genius idea to wait it out in the exact same little area.

"Hey," you say, as you both lay in the dim light attempting to catch your breath.

"Hey."

You try to assess him. You can't see him well for the lack of sunlight but you can see enough. He has long hair tied loosely into a ponytail and you are relatively certain it's red, though not naturally because it's black at the roots. He's wearing a leather jacket and a faded green shirt, and light grey acid-wash jeans. The jacket is smart, you realize. Difficult to tear through. You stare at your own white undershirt and blue button-up and frown.

"Nathaniel."

He looks at you in confusion.

"My name is Nathaniel."

"Oh." A pause, then, "Castiel."

You sit in almost silence, listening to screaming and gunfire and waiting for it to subside and for someone to give some sign of an all-clear. You don't want to say more than necessary for fear of being heard by people or by infected.

Then for a moment the gunfire dies down. You and Castiel share a glance._ All clear?_

No. People start screaming again only seconds later, and as you listen you hear planes overhead. Castiel comes to the conclusion at the same time as you, moments too late to do anything.

"Bombers," he says, his voice tense. The two of you crawl out the way you came. You get out before him, just as the bombs drop. They're not extremely close but the ground tremors violently and the pile of rubble was not quite as stable as you'd previously thought.

"Castiel!"

He gives an almost-scream, sort-of-grunt as the structure collapses on him, pinning his legs. As the dust dies down you can see his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, a sheen of sweat on his face."

"Shit," he breathes, face contorting in pain.

You kneel next to him, trying to keep your voice even as you speak. Having both of you panicking would help nothing. "Can you feel your legs?"

"I think so. They don't feel like legs though. Just kind of a mass of pain where my legs should be."

"Pain is something. At least your legs are still there and you're not paralyzed. Can you move?"

"I probably can," he says, cringing. "I'd really rather not."

"You should try. If you can move we might be able to get you out." More bombs are dropping. They sound closer.

He shifts just a few millimeters and cries out in pain. His breathing is just short of sobbing now and you can see tear tracks in the dust on his face. He shakes his head. "No," his voice cracks, "no, I can't move, I can't move, it hurts too much, I think my leg is impaled on something-"

You lie on the ground, pressing your cheek into the debris in an attempt to see into the small gap between the pieces of wall and his legs. He seems to be right- either something's gone straight through his shin, or that's his bone sticking up through his leg. Neither possibility is particularly pleasant.

You've noticed he's starting to shake, his face pale. Shit, he's probably going into shock from blood loss or pain or just the idea that there's something impaling his leg during a bomb strike.

You pull his head onto your lap, and he gives a whimper, almost, when you jostle his leg. You've never been good at comforting people and your bedside manner is even worse and you know this man who you've just met is probably going to die here today but you shush him anyway and unstick his hair from his sweaty forehead, whispering rambling words of comfort you heard your mother say to your sister when she got shot on the first day of the end of the world as you knew it.

"Why are you still here?" He asks you, his voice faraway as he begins to stop trembling a bit. His eyes, beautiful grey-brown eyes, you'd noticed, looked waxy.

"I can't leave you-" you almost say '_to die_,' but that sounds final. That sounds like you're certain he won't make it. "-alone," you choke out awkwardly.

"I know I'm going to die. You might as well live."

"I'll go out with you," you say, deciding then and there that you will not leave Castiel, however short a time you've known him for. You play with his hair and you talk for a while and you can tell from the way his words start to slur that he's losing too much blood and the end is close for him.

"Why are you alone?" He asks abruptly.

"I could ask you the same."

"I asked first. Satiate a dying man's curiosity." You want to deny that he's dying but you can't and so you go on anyway.

"My family all died within the first week. My sister got shot accidentally, my mom killed herself out of grief. I'm actually not sure about my dad. I left him. I didn't trust him with a gun near me." You shudder involuntarily. "It's been almost a year, I think. I was with some friends for awhile but some of them died and some of them turned out to be deceitful assholes. Now you."

"... I don't know what happened to my parents," he responds quietly. "Dad was a pilot, mom was a stewardess. They weren't home when this started. I was with my friend Lysander and his brother and his brother's girlfriend for a long while but we got separated escaping a horde and the next I found them they were all infected. I've been with some groups on and off since then but nothing long-term. Don't get attached and all that."

His voice is quiet. You wipe away tears from his face with your thumbs and they leave little smears in the dust that's coated his face.

The bombs are landing practically on top of the two of you now. Gingerly you set his head down and move to lay beside him. He turns his face towards yours and you can feel his breath on your face.

"I wish I had my dog right now," he laughs. "Loved the big guy."

You laugh, too, a short, sharp chuckle. "I've never been a dog person."

He smiles faintly for a bit, then it goes away. "Fuck. Fuck, I'm terrified, Nathaniel."

You swallow a lump you hadn't realized was in your throat as he whispers this, voice cracking nearly every other syllable.

"How old are you?" You ask him.

"I'm 18, I think. I was 17 when this started."

You laugh. "I am, too. Maybe we went to the same high school and just never noticed."

"Maybe."

"To think back then my biggest concern was getting into a good university and falling in love."

"Mmh."

"And now I'm lying with some guy I've barely met, about to die by his side and telling him my life story."

"Mmh," he says again, then, "do you think it'll hurt? Getting blown up?"

"It might."

"Are you scared?"

You don't have time to answer.


End file.
